Dear Santa,

Tis the season to be jolly, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Troll the ancient yuletide Carol. Fa-la-la-la …

CAROL IS MY MOM. You touch my mom and I break your face. I will jam you up real good. Those chubby fingers of yours will look like …

Oh, heeeeeey Santa. How are things? Busy whipping elves? Christmas is near, hopefully those little shits are hammering away at my new something cool and holiday granny panties with ancient wooden tools. Those crotch holes aren’t going to staple themselves shut.

I wanted to write you a letter to tell you that I don’t hate the holiday season, so you should help me with some requests.

Look at me. Don I now my gay apparel. Apparel that has your stretched-out likeness dotting my gams. (Dude, you look high as shit all stretched out.)

Over the weekend, I patiently untangled globs of lights to illuminate our tree. I hung broken ornaments with care and shoved hookless ones to rest on limbs of blank spaces. I finger-danced to holiday tunes and slammed some whiskeynog.

But you know that already. You’re watching me all the time. Especially when I change my bra in the spare room.

That was you, right? Or maybe it was Francis from the empty lot next door. Do you normally carry bits of gas station hot dog in your beard? Well, fuck.

This year has been especially less depressing. My seasonal affective disorder has been light, thanks to poor planning and Trump. I was surprised with two weeks of unused PTO and I’ve enjoyed basking in Colorado’s December spring. Global warming is for peasants.

So since my holidays are looking lukewarm to medium, you don’t have to get me much this year. Plus, I’d rather do something charitable for the community and use my gifts for the greater good. For hu(wo)mankind. In gift exchange of 1 million blinker lights, I’ll educate newbie residents from Texas and California on what turn signals are and install them on their cars.

To be fair, I’m helping others, so you can also put a talking robot, a pink liver, a Chromebook, a Heath bar, new tires and a new toilet in my stocking.

To add to my charitable giving, I’ll leave the blinds open while I’m on the toilet for Francis to enjoy.

Thanks, Santa. See you from the spare bedroom window tomorrow morning.

I see the blazing yule before me!


Now my bangs are on fire.

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